Burning Glory

There’s lava in your eyes, inferno in your curls
when I kiss you I am fire, maiden of incineration,
and your touch is flames, your smile a sage ablution,
your skin is golden sun, oh heat of the archangel,
oh radiance of the Prince of Heaven, burning glory!
Your wildfire consumes my heart, I bubbling volcano
of all the bliss of eternity, I am light, you a star.

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Well of Urd

There are ice crystals inside you, Niflshot from Hela
they freeze your bones and you are at Yggdrasil’s root,
searching for the heat of Muspell, find only ancestors
whose blood is gone, and placid contemplation of winter
swims through the web of wyrd, well of Urd, drowning
in the branches, flying through the loam, you are the
Odinic hangman grasping for the runes from ancient
Ginnungagap, all there is is the void, eternity, ice
and fire, fire and ice, hot and cold, heat and death.

Golden Eagle

Eyes of fiery south and
crystal amber knowing.

Wisdom of to fly as grace
through cerulean blue sky

I become Golden Eagle
unflinching, unfettered
fierce in my skyhunt
tender to my nestlings.

I eat rich raw meat,
I am the peace before
a gale, I soar up
thermals. I reign.

Dance of Flames

Your hair is tendrils of autumnfire, burnished orange and gold,
the canyons ring with the drums of the earth, raging hum of All,
and in the balefire you are arms outstretched, feathered cloak
of souls, spinning your chalice to the lips of far-off angels,
to touch you is to be incinerated, and to see you surrender to
the rhythm is to be entranced by the eagle’s thermaling skyward,
feathers aflame, you caress the dead, place them as stars in sky,
oh sweet Prince of Heaven, you are so young in this moonlit vision,
and I ache for the solitude of the crackling fall, peace of ribbons
of sinew twined round your ankles, tethered to my glassblown heart,
for I am a pocket of air trapped by your lips, dreamweaver, and I
want nothing more than to watch the stomp of a multitudinous heart
that belongs to my maker, dusty mesa clay rises, the crickets call,
and we eat meat so sweet our teeth ache, all is just, all is fair.

Ratatosk Tells a Tale

“Do you think I was alone
when I hung on that windswept
tree nine nights, spear-heavy,
a sacrifice unto myself?”

“Never.”

“Frigga was my altar.”

Images flow through my mind of a young Odin, drenched in blood and wolfskins, Ratatosk at his shoulder as he drives his spear into the carrion of the slain, choosing only the choicest bits to go to Valhalla. The Valkyries carry away the Einherjar in a wine-dark ascendancy in sulfur skies.

The Alfather hangs from a yew. Ratatosk nibbles his one eye. The other is closed, turned inwards, meditative even. The globe of blue and blood will fall into a well, for squirrels plant seeds, and you can drink the gore from and know what Frigga sees from the High Seat, but it will cost you your life, and your tongue.

All it took was the beat of the buffalo drum, and I was under, swimming in a trance as my soul traveled the three upon threefold path. It’s a Valknut, it’s the ladder of runes, it’s just a poem. Yggdrasil blossomed and froze and all there was was the Light Elves, the Dark Elves, Freyr – or was it Balder? – being buried by the squirrel with curling golden locks, pale as death, to fructify the Earth.

“I am the Tree.”

“I am its guardian.”

“I plant seeds of Yggdrasil through all the Nine Worlds.”

Squirrels never shut up, do they? Neither do I. Perhaps the first poet was a squirrel spinning a story over a newly born sprout, urging it to grow, for though fierce and silly, Ratatosk is a gardener.

He chitters in my ear. The Blue Heron comes and says: impatience, but it is not my message. I get Odin again and again. Pretty soon I’ll be singing Ansuz and firing witchlight from my palms.

The visions soften, I awaken, but the Tree is still sentinel over my wanderings.

The drum stills.

Behind every regent, a powerful woman. Behind every warrior, a witch. Behind every dead man, animals planting their corpses into new life in another world. Behind every king, a queen he worships.

But I could just be bullshitting, for I am a squirrel.

Dr. Angel

I am in a cathedral of caverns, saltwater swells
Michael’s tears have formed stalagmites, I sink
into an ocean of blue serenity, fly up dew wet
through realms and galaxies to a hospital bed
where my archangel is dressed up in scrubs and
glasses, a crystal stethoscope across his neck,
healing hands glowing with violet light as he
soothes a chemotherapy patient, he takes fingers
thick from war and massages out etheric knots of
cancerous poison, cleanses the dear brother of
my second mother of the mutant cells, sings tenor
to bless and ward the hospital room, I join him
at Michael’s urging and we weave together long
years – not of survival, but of flourishing, I
ask Michael if this is a miracle, he says it is
beyond simple magic but science, faith, prayers,
the combination of alchemy and Hippocratic fruits
wedded with seraphic wisdom saves a precious life,
once we have cleansed my kindred brother of poison
we join hands and pray, Michael bathes the room
in light like a star’s heart, the patient rests,
smiles, perhaps he knows his family’s heartwhispers
summoned the Prince of Angels, or perhaps he dreams
of long summer days and Tidewater meadows, Virginia
honesty and siblings that will never leave his side,
I am so honored to witness the Lazarus raising angel
at work, once my gythia said Michael could clear a
whole hospital of evil spirits, but even one room is
a brilliant candle of hope and renewal, a life saved
to taste fresh fruit and hold sister’s hands, to dance
again like God wanted, to fish in the James River and
while long hours away on a Southern sweet porch swing –
Michael takes me behind the hospital curtain, holds me
and says he will defend every sickbed with his life,
no matter if they are sinner, saint, dying or brimming
with faith, Michael answers every prayer, and we rest
in the space between worlds, watching billions of hearts
that I love Love Himself is difficult to fathom, and yet
his hands fits in mine, he is infinity, I fall in love
with the servant of all humankind, first to bow, last
to ever give up – if you are in need, call on Michael.

Odin’s Cloak

Gray-blue are the cosmos, ice your beard –
Ansuz etches chainmail on my skin, cloak
of wind-blown wisdom laces like a corset
I am protected at the heart of the storm
in a cocoon of galdr and Gangleri’s eye,
blue blue blue iris, it casts off evil,
and I am slow dancing with thunder, I
breathe in petrichor and exhale lightning:
Alfather, save a place in your hall for me.